


Half a Pound of Tupenny Rice

by Fire_Sign



Series: Snips and Snails and Squirrelly Tales [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMMwhumptober, Phryne Fisher is a better parent than both of hers, and kids are still pretty gross, not that the bar is particularly high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 03:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Ant had been at Wardlow a little over nine months the first time he fell truly ill.What was meant to be whump but is mostly just unrepentent fluff...





	Half a Pound of Tupenny Rice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will make absolutely no sense unless you are familiar with [Fear Not The Bugle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528130/chapters/14934661), the tale of how Phryne and Jack became semi-reluctant parents. 
> 
> This was also meant to be "Phryne confronts the fact her parents are pretty damn shitty" whump through the prompt "severe illness" and is... not. But I've always been a rebel, and the Whumptober rules allow for this. ;-P

Ant had been at Wardlow a little over nine months the first time he fell truly ill. There had been a fever early on, and Phryne was fairly certain children his age were perpetually dripping from one orifice or another, but it was late winter and she was just about to fall into bed when she heard the cough.

She might not do children, but she’d been one once upon a time, and there was no mistaking the harsh bark and desperate whistling gasp that followed as anything but pertussis. Jack, already in bed, sat up, frowning.

“I’ll check on him,” he said, feet already on the floor.

She nodded, running a brush through her already smooth hair and keeping half an ear on the other room, suppressing the niggle of concern growing in her gut. Jack came in a few minutes later.

“He’s settled,” he said. “I gave him a drink.”

She nodded and slid into bed, remembering too many gaunt faces from her childhood--Susie Cotland from down the street, and Thomas Strickland, and little Harry. Little Harry more than most. She slept fitfully, waking at every cough, flinching at the high-pitched whoop that followed. Jack gave up on sleep in the early hours, heading out to soothe him as best he could. By seven am, Phryne had given up as well; she made her way into Ant’s room, where the boy was sitting upright against his pillows, his face unnaturally pale against his dark curls.

“Morning, Squirrel,” she said brightly, though it took great pain to fake enthusiasm this side of noon. “Are we feeling poorly?”

The boy nodded before coughs racked his body again, leaning forward as if it would help him catch his breath. She bit her lip and looked to Jack, who was continuing to frown. With a nurse for a mother, no doubt he knew exactly what that sound meant.

“Fever,” he mouthed over their son’s head, and she nodded.

“Well then,” she said, leaning forward to catch Ant’s eye, “I am going to ask Mr. Butler to make up some breakfast in bed, how does that sound?”

The latest round of coughing had left tears in his eyes, but he managed a broad smile.

“Peas mims, dat good!” 

Leaving Jack to deal with things--really, he was so much better at it and there was a suspicious amount of phlegm about to come from Ant’s nose--Phryne headed down the stairs, pausing at the telephone to reach Mac. And if she, perhaps, hinted rather strongly that she’d appreciate her best friend’s medical expertise, Mac was more than willing to overlook the demanding tone in order to help.

She was not the only one, either. Over the next few days, Wardlow became a quiet hive of activity. Mac stopped by twice a day to check on the patient, faithfully attended to by his father outside of working hours. Mr Butler spent hours in the kitchen crafting dishes to tempt an ill child’s appetite. Dot, who was expecting another little Collins, did not come around but sent over a large collection of insipid children’s stories which Phryne promptly handed off to Jack and pretended she’d never seen. Jack’s mother, Mairi, offered her nursing experience. 

None of it made a difference. Ant’s condition deteriorated until he was sleeping almost all day, at least between coughing fits, and Mac was making quiet murmurs about the hospital if he didn’t improve by her next visit. Phryne packed the bag and set it in the Hispano, her fingers gripping the door so hard they ached for an hour afterward.

That evening, Jack found her in the parlour, a book forgotten in her lap and a whiskey in her hand. 

“Mum’s sitting with him for awhile,” he said, pouring himself his own drink and coming to settle next to Phryne on the chaise. “He was asking if you’d come in tonight. To tell him the princesses story. I think he’s getting cabin fever.”

Phryne didn’t reply. She had been in and out of the room over the last few days, bringing drinks and tempting treats and sometimes his very favourite stories--the books that were not painfully awful, at least, and a few of her own invention--but the first barking cough sent her fleeing as quickly as she could. She hadn’t gone back in since Mac’s visit; she couldn’t… she was not cut out for this. 

“We’re lucky to have her,” Phryne said, resolutely examining her glass in the firelight. Then added a moment later, “I’m thinking of calling in another doctor.”

“You don’t trust Mac?”

“Of course I trust Mac, I just…” 

“Phryne?”

His tone was cautious and supportive and just a little curious, and to her intense embarrassment tears sprung into her eyes. 

“I had a brother,” she said quietly. “Harry, after my father. It sounds awful, I know, but I don’t… I don’t think of him the way I think of Janey. I barely knew him, really. He was only a few months when he caught the whooping cough. He lingered for weeks. Then one night I kissed him good night and he was so hot, and the next morning… he was so cold, Jack.”

His hand came to wrap around her shoulder, and she moved closer to rest her cheek against his chest; she breathed him in, felt the solid movement of his body beneath her. The explanation stumbled forth, a secret long-held and mostly forgotten until it had been brought to the forefront once more.

“It was nothing new in Collingwood, just another little casket in a world where every street had one, but it devastated my parents. They fought, loudly. Mother threw the crockery. Father raged against Aunt Prudence, who spent all her money on doctors for Arthur and couldn’t be bothered to help her own kin.” She scoffed bitterly. “I found out years later that she’d sent money early on, which Father had immediately spent at the bookies, thinking she was meddling in business not her own, and sent a doctor later. But it was too late, and Father blamed her anyway. Then one morning everything was gone--his clothes and his cot and this lovely little bunny made of rags--and his name was never mentioned again. I was six.”

She felt Jack tense beneath her; he was far from fond of her parents, though he had the good sense to keep those opinions to himself under most circumstances. 

“Thank god for your Aunt Prudence,” he murmured instead. “At least someone was looking out for you.”

“Well, Ant need never worry about that,” she replied, thinking of all the people who’d come to his side. 

“No,” Jack agreed, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Especially not with you as his mother.”

She tilted her head up to look at him; there was no teasing on his face, no hint of placation. Just utter and complete faith, steady as the bedrock and as unmovable.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she said, her voice not conveying quite the light tone she’d intended. 

“Phryne…” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes; for the first time, she really acknowledged how tired he looked. 

“I know,” she said. “I just… I suspect I’m more bad influence than good.”

He snorted. “Most likely. But you are also fiercely kind, and competent, and a far better mother than you give yourself credit for. He doesn’t care that the chicken soup comes from Mr. Butler or… he loves his Mims for who she is, not the shadows in her past.” His lips quirked. “Well, that and her princesses stories.”

“Is that a hint I should go upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Phryne laughed, sitting up and draining the last of her whiskey. 

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she left the room. 

She headed into the kitchen and spoke to Mr. Butler, then headed up the back stairs to Ant’s bedroom. She knocked on the bedroom door quietly, so as not to disturb Ant if he’d fallen asleep, and at Mairi’s quiet “Come in,” pushed the door open.

“Mims!” 

He was still pale, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, and had clearly lost weight from his lack of appetite, but he was awake and more alert than he’d been for a few days, at least that Phryne had seen. A quick look towards Mairi, who read her question and nodded in agreement, settled it. Perhaps they could avoid the hospital.

“Nanny Mairi is going to go have dinner, Squirrel, so I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me for awhile,” she said. 

The utter delight on his face made her heart twist, and ache more when he coughed again. Mairi stroked his back until it passed, then stood up.

“I'll jist be downstairs if ye need me,” she murmured, and Phryne was thankful once more for the quiet understanding of Jack’s mother. “The bairn will be alrigh’.” Then she turned to Ant, her expression firm but her eyes sparkling. “And nae adventures for ye, young man.”

“Yes, nanny.”

As soon as Mairi was gone, Phryne gave her son a conspiratorial wink. 

“How would you like an adventure?”

She’d never seen him scramble from beneath a blanket so quickly before, practically launching himself across the bed to hug her. It set off another coughing fit, and she held him steady until it passed.

“None of that, Squirrel,” she scolded gently. “We mustn’t let Nanny Mairi catch us.”

Then she grabbed the doona and wrapped the boy up snugly, and lifted him up. Approaching the door with exaggerated sneakiness, she glanced into the hall to check they’d not be caught; cocooned in her arms, Ant giggled. Attempting to treat it with the same solemnity she’d use while breaking into a crime scene--which was significantly more difficult with an almost-three-year-old--she quickly took him into her own bedroom. Ant’s eyes widened; the boudoir was strictly off limits to him, and even crossing the threshold was a novelty. She set him on the bed while she pulled on a jumper, giving him another wink.

“Don’t tell dad,” she said. 

“He know,” Ant replied. “He clever.”

“And so are you,” Phryne said, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. It made him giggle again, then cough. Perhaps they should be quieter.

Picking Ant up again, she snuck back into the hall and out the door that led to the balcony, where two chairs--and a pot of hot, fresh tea, bless Mr. Butler--was waiting. Phryne settled into the seat and arranged Ant, still wrapped up, on her lap; he cuddled in closely, his breath still a little wheezy. Phryne pressed a kiss against his crown.

“The stars are lovely tonight,” she said, glancing down in time to see him turn his face towards the sky. “How about a story, then?”

“Oh, peas mims?” he agreed eagerly. “Two p’incess.”

And that was Jack found them an hour later, Ant asleep and Phryne almost so. 

“Absconding with the patient, Miss Fisher?” he asked, giving them both a kiss and settling into the second chair. “You really are a terrible influence.” 


End file.
